Partnership
by ShatteredAngelWings
Summary: He looks at me, with familiar green eyes, looking cold and calm and oh so calculating. "Have a seat, Chloe." My brain is filled with a million "I love you"s those same lips had spoken when I was fifteen. "Thank you," I say, breathless and shaky and so damn close to tears, "Derek."
1. Chapter 1

Partnership

1 (REBOOT)

"I'm late, shit." I hop up and down, trying to pin in my earrings, blue little studs that bring out my eyes and set off my hair.

Today is the day that I _finally _head to my interview with the biggest Supernatural-friendly company in America: Genesis Project & Company.

My name is Chloe Saunders; I'm twenty-one and, most importantly, I'm _not _normal; not by a long shot. I've never _been _normal. I'm _ab_normal; an _anomaly _even within the Supernatural community; sure, I have friends but, when they think I'm not looking, they give me this shared look, half-apprehension, half-disgust.

I smile at my reflection, checking for lipstick. Pick out something from between my teeth. Smile again. Happy, shimmery eyes, flushed cheeks, pink lips, wisps of curls haloing around my face. It's a familiar face, one that's remained the same and child like through out the years. _Especially since—_I cut off the thought and smile again.

I look nice. I look like a little girl trying to play dress up.

"You look lovely," says the man behind me, smiling. He's older, with leathery brown skin and kind brown eyes, dressed in a suit and chauffer hat—all he's missing is a car and a heartbeat. My eyes flicker down to gaping wound in his chest, from where the pole had pierced him and pinned him in his seat.

Every time I see him, I see a man with a wife and family and kids who called the cops on me when I tried to speak to them, tried to communicate what he wanted to tell them, Milos at my side, translucent but visible to me and _invisible_ to them.

I mange a smile before I head out of the bathroom; I'm nearly bowled over by my dogs, Brady and Amber. "Not now, Amber," I whisper tiredly as I begin the long ritual of looking for my keys. It's _always _the same; I need to go somewhere, my keys magically hide, and I have to find them. Ever since I moved out of the house when I turn eighteen, they've been doing that.

"Keys, keys, keys!" I chant out, hoping they'll hear me. The patch-work apartment groans in response, mocking me; I feel heat creep down my neck and shoulders, making my skin splotchy. I feel embarrassed. "Under the couch?" suggests Milos, ever the helpful lingering spirit. I think I gave him a smile as I catch sight of them, shiny and glossy on the foyer table.

They fly across the wood, as if being thrown and I hear a raspy laugh. It sounds like a smoker's. I turn and find a guy standing behind me, wearing an oversized green flannel shirt, his curly strawberry-blonde hair pulled out of his shining eyes. He's smiling, showing off coffee-stained teeth as he pretends to pull a string and the keys go sailing.

My legs are broken and my lungs have shriveled to dust; my eyes are blurry and I'm faintly aware of hot water running down my cheeks, smearing my makeup. Milos is panicking, trying to shake me out of it, his loud voice drawing my attention away from the strange man.

"Miss Saunders!"

Yes.

Right.

The interview.

Amber is barking furiously at the air, her fur on end. "I-I-I—" I stammer, a fluttering in my stomach twisting and gnashing like razor blades. My words are lost, hidden in the folds of my blazer, gone and lost and never to be found; my lips move and shape sounds but they don't come out right.

"I'm sorry." The smile that I'm forcing nearly splits my face in two as I glance at my reflection. Ashy skin, tired eyes, smudged eyeliner. I wipe it away with the tip of my finger.

_I'm sorry, _I want to say as I kiss Brady on the shoulder and throw Amber a dog treat to calm her down, _I thought I saw someone I knew. They looked a lot like my mom, _but I don't. I readjust my hair, fixing the curls so they lay on my shoulders in a simple, business fashion.

I look older and more filled out, if not a bit more hardened. I glance over my shoulder and catch a glimpse of the green flannel man.

I can't slam my apartment door fast enough.

oOo

The parking lot is empty and I drive around in circles for a few minutes, glancing around the area. Close-clipped bushes. Minimum vegetation. A cold, sleek building rises from the concrete and towers above me, reflecting the glare of the sun on its window faces; it looks like its glowering at me. All the windows are tinted.

I look at myself in the rearview mirror; I look presentable, with a few wispy hairs escaping and a flush on my cheeks from the crying episode earlier but I look simple, clean and childish.

Ignoring the breeze, I step out of the car. _You can do this. _My feet hop the curb. My brain counts the steps it takes to get midway to the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a tall, angry man. Greasy blonde hair pulled back. Cold, hard grey eyes. Crooked eyeteeth. Stubble crawling up his jaws, looping around his cracked lips. Flannel t-shirt and jeans, looking undone and unkempt.

_A homeless man, _is the first thought I have but then I look closer and see the immaculate state of his clothes, his expensive sneakers, the probably two thousand dollar ring on his thumb. He's got a big, dark tattoo on the inside of his forearm that makes my skin crawl.

_Werewolf. _A common Super. "Hey, there, pretty bone lady," he whispers in a raspy southern voice, grinning at me like I'm a steak. I grip the handle of my purse harder. I'm _not _defenseless little Chloe anymore.

"Hello, dingy mutt," I say, though my heart is racing when his eyes narrow, his grin a little tighter. He stalks forward, soundless on the concrete, and he reeks of cheap perfume—I mean cologne. "That isn't any way to speak to a man," he bites out, anger darting across his eyes. "_That _isn't any way to speak to a woman," I counter, biting back another retort when I see his nostrils flare.

"Liam!"

It's another werewolf. Long, dark swarthy hair. Black eyes. Olive skin. Broader body. Black leather jacket. Jeans and sneakers and a white motorcycle t-shirt. His eyes flicker to me and I notice the frown lines that look more like wounds lining his mouth. "Stop playing. We have to get these printing parts up to Derek or he'll have our asses," says the dark-haired werewolf.

"Yeah, yeah," laughs Liam, waving a hand through the air, not at all looking at the dark-haired guy, his clear, expressive eyes staring straight at me and I have the mindset that he's picturing me nude. I get the feeling he is.

A slow, animalistic smile creeps across his mouth, flashing those crooked eyeteeth at me. "I'll catch you later, cutie," he says, bowing mockingly.

I have to blink hard to keep myself from rolling my eyes as he walks away, calling out for his friend. "Ramon!" He disappears and I turn to the giant building.

_Here goes nothing. _


	2. Chapter 2

Partnership

2

Derek glanced up me, waved me absently into a seat, and hunched over his paperwork. It was as I was sitting down, feeling thoroughly silly, that he glanced up again, slowly this time, like he couldn't believe his eyes.

"Miss Sau—_Chloe_?"

"Yes, sir?"

He hadn't changed a bit. His black hair was still lank and oily but he'd combed it back; his skin had cleared up over the years and now the only sign of acne were the slight pockets of scars but his eyes were the same, same shocking green that had haunted my high school years.

"You've…grown," he murmured. I glanced down at my still-nonexistent bust. "Only in height, sir," I replied and he hummed in response, flipping nonchalantly through my resume.

"You're…" He glanced up, his eyes meeting mine, "…twenty-three now?" I nodded and crossed my legs. He shuffled through the papers. "Graduated top of her class…Lyle College in Buffalo…came out as a necromancer…mm…"

I stared at him while he pawed over my resume, murmuring to himself. He'd grown into his body and took care of himself; he looked healthy but he had stubble crawling up his jaw so he could've shaved. I peeked at his wedding finger and saw, with a jolt of relief, no band.

"Why do you want this position?" Derek asked as he folded his hands under his chin, looking bored. I bristled, despite myself. "I-I…Ever since I was a little girl, I wanted to make movies, make books, make characters come to life. I wanted to making something of my own, something that kids all over the world would read and squeal and dive into, something that makes…makes them believe, in something. Wishing it was real. Daring adventures, faraway places, villainous bad guys, romance!"

When I realized I was babbling, I quieted and ran my finger along the seam of my coat. "I wan to have that effect on someone's life. I want to see a child's face light up when they open the pages of the book they waited so long to view, or when they waltz out of the m-movie theatre, staring at the world with brand new eyes. It's like anything; everything really, is possible, in that moment. And I'd die to be that cause of that."

He stared at me, his eyes piercing in that special way they had when we were teenagers, and I felt my face flush. "That certainly sounds wonderful, Miss Saunders," he murmured quietly, glancing down at my resume.

"So you want to be a screenwriter?" he muttered. "Yes, sir." He rubbed at his jaw, whiskers scratching against his dry skin as he gazed off somewhere over my shoulder. "Seeing as Brady and Amber just ran off—" An irritated look passed across his face "—we have a few positions that need to be filled." Pausing, he leaned in close. A dark look crossed over his face in a flash, too fast for me to decipher.

"We're on our way cranking out new copies of _Chasm_, and we're working on the graphic novel, with, of course, Andrew Carson's assistance," Derek said. I remembered Carson from our time spent together in high school; he was the boys' uncle, if I remembered correctly.

"Who would be _drawing _the art, then?" I asked curiously as I shifted in my seat; my thighs stuck to the upholstery uncomfortably. I made the mistake of flanking behind Derek's head and my eyes saw a little boy, no older then thirteen, playing in the parking lot. He had a kick ball and kicked it, hard. It bounced away into traffic and, as the boy ran to get it, a car sped through.

"Chloe?"

_Crunch. _The boy was sent flying, his eyes wide, horrified as he fell in a heap on the ground.

"Chloe?"

His scared eyes filled with tears that ran, bloody, down his face. His limbs were bent at all angles and bones peeked out; the driver was panicking and panic-stricken, calling someone.

"I-I-I—" I stopped. Took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," I apologized with a weak smile. Behind Derek, the boy was dying slowly, the driver was panicking and the boy's father was hysterical. "You saw a ghost, didn't you?" he snapped and it was a flashback from the past.

He was a teenager again, looming above me, forcing me to admit I saw ghosts and that I wasn't crazy, wasn't insane, wasn't sleep-deprived, a scowl set on his face. _You saw a ghost, didn't you? _Even then, he'd known.

I squared my shoulders. "Yes, sir. An accident. A little boy got hit with a car; paramedics were unable to resuscitate him." I glanced at Derek quietly. "Forgive me, sir," I murmured, unclenching my fist. My nails left crescent marks in the leather.

"My name—" He said suddenly, his tone sharp, cold. "—Is Mr. Souza. Not sir, not Derek. _Mr. Souza_." I bit my tongue. "Yes, si—Mr. Souza." He smirked and waved me away; I rose and walked to the door.

"Oh, and Mr. Souza?"

"Hm?"

"Call me Chloe." I met his startled, green eyes. "Not _Miss Saunders._" I closed the door behind me and the black-haired shaman from before elbowed passed me with a muttered, "Bitch."

I swallowed my rude comment and instead said, "I like your hair. It's very pretty." She flashed me a weak smile and walked into Derek's office. The door clicked shut behind her. A murmur of Derek's deep, rumbling voice.

"Surprised you aren't bawling your eyes out," Tori laughed when I passed her. "Me too," I joked, relaxing as we chattered and caught up.

"_Excuse me_, cutie," said a voice from behind me. I bristled. "Is that any way to speak to a young…" The words froze on my tongue as I turned and saw the leering, unshaven face of Liam.

"…Woman? Yes, sweetie, I think it is." He grinned wolfishly and Tori snapped, "Hey, buddy, _back off_." He shouldered me and I stumbled, hard. "Hey."

I looked up to find Derek, his green eyes flaring in the light as he drank in the other werewolf's scent. "Didn't I _already _fire you?" he growled darkly and his fingers dug in, angry, hard. I pulled away and my heel caught on the edge of the carpet.

I nearly stumbled but caught myself. "I have to go," I mumbled. Derek's eyes honed in on mine. "I'll call you if you receive a position." Liam's lip curled and I could feel the stares digging into my back.

I really needed a drink.


	3. Chapter 3

Partnership

3

I decided to skip going to a bar and getting drunk, instead opting to sit in my fuzzy pajama pants and Sylvester the Cat nightshirt and downing a bottle of wine with dinner for one, aka a microwavable one.

Peeling back the plastic, I poked at the meatloaf with my fork as I turned up the news. A man flashed across the screen, about my age, with oily curls and a slick smile, a cruel glint in his eyes. "Royce Banks, age twenty-five, is on the loose. He escaped from the local prison, although the guards don't know how. He was sentenced for a life sentence for the murder of his brother, Austin, and murder, rape, and battery of Amber Long. " I glanced around me.

My doors and windows were locked, my curtains drawn shut, my front door bolt locked, my back door too. I slid a chunk of meatloaf into my mouth and turned up the volume.

"—Last seen wearing a black t-shirt and jeans, stolen from a truck driver he hijacked on I-56," the newscaster was saying as I tuned back in, eating my dinner and sipping the wine. What I'd eaten turned to stone in my stomach as the reporter said, "he's extremely dangerous. He's believed to manipulate people around him, use any means necessary to get what he wants. Whatever you do, do _not _approach him. Back to you, Jeannette."

The news cut to a pretty black woman with curly hair, who began talking about some problems with California's water system and an earthquake in Tokyo. When I turned off the TV, everything was silent, except for the hum of the AC kicking on. Chills crawled up my spine as I curled up and tried to put the uneasy thoughts of my head.

"This is _Buffalo_ you're talking about. Serial killer rapists don't get loose here," I whispered to myself as I rose and threw away the uneaten food. Still, just to reassure myself, I set the alarm three times, quadruple-checked the locks and used my phone light to help me through the darkness, freezing at every noise that sounded like a madman clawing to get into my house.

"I'll wake you up if something happens," Milos told me soothingly as I crawled under the covers and picked up the metal bat I keep under the bed for emergencies and pressed it against my chest. Reluctantly, I turned off the light and closed my eyes.

I could hear Milos humming under his breath, a familiar lullaby, and my muscles relaxed slowly.

oOo

The alarm blaring in my ear made me scream and bolt awake, swinging the bat. Wisps of my dream evaporated, being locked up in Lyle House during my teenage years, that crazy chase we had with the Edison Group (a group made for Supernaturals, to help them hone their abilities and discover what is means to be a Super), finding the boys' dad.

My bat connected with something and it crashed to the floor, shattering. My lamp. "Poor lamp," I said, "rest in peace." Milos chuckled as I cleaned up the mess, tucked the bat under my bed again, and headed for the shower.

At 4:30, I was dressed in yoga pants, a light sweatshirt and my running sneakers. Just because I there was a crazy man on the loose didn't man I'd stop my daily park jogging routine. Throwing my hair into a ponytail, I grabbed my headband, slapped it on, and slid on an armband, clipping my mini ipod to it.

"Want me to come with you?" Milos asked. I shrugged. "Sure." Keys in my sports bra, I jogged to my car and it sputtered on.

oOo

Werewolves trotted around the grassy area in the park in their wolf skins, playing and wrestling with each other. Dogs barked at them and the werewolves proceeded to scare the shit out of the dogs by snarling.

Some witches were teaching their children how to use a binding spell; wizards chattered with beers. A skin walker flew a kite and bumped into a werewolf. They stared at each other before smiling shyly and talking.

I stretched out my legs carefully, feeling my hamstrings ache. "Lovely weather," Milos murmured. "Yeah," I said, stretching down to touch my toes, hair flipping over. "It's supposed to rain for two weeks though," I moaned as I straightened, hit PLAY on my ipod and slid in my earbuds.

I set off at an easy pace, more like a light walk, as I focused on breathing. _One, _breathe, _two, _breathe, _one, _breathe, _two, _breathe. Every footfall made my muscles ache, even after my daily running routine, but I ignored it and turned the corner, heading for the woods.

Stupid, I know, but I didn't feel like being Miss Sociable today. The scent of fresh leaves and the sound of birds singing made me relax as I kicked up the pace, a bit faster, more of a jog now. My hair brushed my shoulder blades with each footfall.

Something howled in painand I paused my music, heart thumping. I looked around. "Milos? What is it?" I looked at Milos curiously as he floated back to me. "A werewolf, in his wolf form. Changing back."

I relaxed. Pulling out my headphones, I heard the muffled whining and wailing, the heaving that came with a werewolf's Change. "Should I?" I murmured and decided to see if they needed help or comfort.

"Excuse me?" I pushed aside the brush, carefully avoiding the tree branches that attempted to trip me up. A wail answered me, cut off quickly by a whimper. It sounded pained and I quickly picked my way closer to the noise. "Do you need—" I was interrupted.

"No." The voice was low and guttural, more of a growl than a voice. "Are you sure?" I pressed, more firmly this time. "No." It came out in a rush of breath. Knowing how painful it was, no matter how many times the werewolf changed, I crept closer and spotted his crouched form.

His black hair clung to his face in clumps as he dry-heaved and his entire body shuddered, dark fur retreating under his skin. He slumped the floor and lay there for a while as I knelt down beside him. His hand grabbed my ankle and a scream burst out of me.

"Skittish as a kitten," the guy grumbled as he lay there, eyes closed. His hair covered his face but he looked—sounded—familiar. "Wh-what?" I squeaked, outrage pouring into my veins like poison. The man rose to his knees, naked and gleaming with sweat, rolling his shoulders as my face flushed.

This guy was muscular, not in a robust way but in a nice, athletic way. The way he moved was familiar.

"I said skittish as a kitten, Chloe."

And that was how I found myself face-to-face with a gloriously naked, post-Change Derek Souza, my soon-to-be boss.


	4. Chapter 4

Partnership

4

I wordlessly stared at him wide-eyed, my cheeks warming at the sight of him. "I-I-I—" "You what?" Was it just my early morning brain or was he taunting me? He was rifling around in the bushes and I saw the muscles of his back, strong and hard, and my cheeks burned.

"I-I…" I took a deep breath and turned away, glancing up at the sunlight streaming through the leaves, turning them a pastel green color a shade lighter than Derek's eyes. "I-I was worried," I muttered, more to myself than to him, "A werewolf's Ch-Change is very p-painful, regardless of how many times they've been through it. I'm sure y-you re-em-ember, right?" I met his eyes and I could see a flash of emotion, his jaw tensing. "Yeah," he grunted as he pulled up his boxers, hidden in the bushes.

Sweat dampened his hair and gleamed on his skin as he wiped his body down with a towel, wrapping it around the back of his neck like an athlete, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. "I do. As I've found out from the Pack, every young werewolf experiences test runs like I did. It wasn't due to the…" A pause as he eased into his jeans, passed his, admittedly, very shapely butt. He turned away to zip up his fly and button his jeans.

"…Tweaking?" I asked before I could stop myself.

"Yes." He reached down and pulled out a black tank top, pulling it on and ruffling his wet hair. His flushed cheeks darkened when he caught me staring so openly and _he _looked away, wiping his face down. "How are you?" he asked.

"Miss Saunders, who is this?" Milos asked right next to my ear and I jumped, startled by his light, Hispanic accent. "Who—a ghost, right?" Derek's eyes roamed the landscape, like a cop looking for an escaped convict. I remembered him cornering me down in the laundry room at Lyle House, demanding I believe what I was. It was crazy, at the time, seeing ghosts? Hearing them? Being able to _raise the dead? _I may have been a wanna-be director but necromancers were fiction, fantasy, paranormal—_not real_.

"Milos, my old driver when I went to Lyle House, before…" The words wouldn't come and I licked my lips, ignoring the way he was stepping closer and closer towards me. "…Before you went "crazy", right?" he finished softly, pushing a piece of hair behind my ear.

My face burned as I remembered how I'd thought we'd be forever, we'd always be together and then we drifted apart until one day, he just left and took my heart with him. "W-we sh-should—" I stammered.

A crack like lightening made him smack into me hard enough to knock my teeth and I chomped down on my tongue, blood in my mouth. He was on top of me, keeping me down as his nostrils flared, his face white as he shushed me as I began to move, struggling. My ears were ringing.

"I see no one," reported Milos softly, his familiar face hovering over Derek's shoulder. Tears stung my vision, prickling dangerously; I wouldn't—_couldn't—_cry in front of my ex-boyfriend. I steadied my breathing and focused on Milos's kind face, weathered.

"I can't smell anyone," Derek whispered and his warm breath hit my cheeks, dampening them. "Milos can't see anyone either," I told him quietly, ignoring the way my tongue was bleeding and throbbing and my heart was pounding.

"A fire cracker." He lifted his head, slowly following something. I looked where his eyes were trained.

"Mom, look!" cackled a blond-haired boy to a strikingly similar woman, holding out a firecracker. A little girl with a stuffed bear strapped to her back played with a little Scottie near by, talking to him excitedly. "Damn it, Joseph, how many times have I told you not to play with explosives? Explosives and eight-year-olds don't mix." The woman threw it in the bottom of a trash bin.

He shook off his mother and pouted, and then went to go sit with the little girl, tearing out chunks of grass. In the back of their shirts were slits, about ten inches long in length. At first, I couldn't see why they had the slits.

And then he slowly slid out a pair of pure-white wings. (A/N: Thumbs up to those who get the references. Hint: He's coming out with _Forever _on January 19th, 2015. The _final _adventure.) They were huge, about fourteen feet across, seven each, and speckled with spots of grey along the secondary feathers. I couldn't help but stare.

Derek crouched there, squinting at the kid and then he got up and wiped off his jeans with a mutter of, "Damn kids."

"Are they…" I began hesitantly, wiping my mouth free of dirt and blood as the little girl stood up, crouched down and then shot into the air, unfurling beautiful white wings identical to the boy's.

"Nephilim, yes. The offspring of angels and humans. Though, most have wings." Derek handed me his towel and I dabbed at my gouged cheek. The gravel here hurt. "Aren't they—"

"Fake? No. They've been around as long as werewolves…and necromancers." He stretched and shoved back his long bangs, watching me. "I wish I could fly," Milos sighed wistfully, watching almost enviously. "I'm not very fond of heights," I told him, brushing off my back.

"But they're beautiful," Derek said behind me, "They're so free, unlike us grounded folk." I snorted a laugh and he looked at me sharply, his expression unreadable, a look in his eyes I couldn't figure out.

"Let me walk you home. Royce Banks is on the loose," he told me slowly as we made our way back to the entrance. "I drove here." I fished my keys out of my bra and his face turned red.

"I don't care." By the set of his shoulders and his jaw jutting out, he wasn't letting it go. "Listen, I don't need you to take care of me. You gave me up long ago. You left, without a word, right after we—after I—" My cheeks burned and I clenched my jaw. "The point is you left after the most amazing night of my life and never _once _did you try to find me. Hard as I tried, I couldn't find you; even _Kit _couldn't find you."

His eyes met mine and there was a cyclone of emotions, hurt, anger, regret, and so many others. I clenched my fists as leaves crunched under my sneakers, nearly drowned out by the rush of blood in my ears. _He _didn't get to make me feel guilty; he left and never looked back.

"I've been fine without you this long. Why would I need you now? You don't even know me anymore." We broke through the tree line as my words sliced around us. He didn't speak for the longest time. "I never wanted to hurt you, Chloe."

"It's Miss Saunders." I threw back my shoulders. "And all you did was hurt me, especially the night we made love and I woke to find you missing. It was like…like you took my heart and shattered. I don't need you. Don't think you can come galloping back into my life and wiggle your way back in. I've done fine my own. I'm a big girl. I wasn't then but I grew up."

I turned away.

"But you need to see that I have a life. It took me a while to move on but I did…" I cleared my throat to bat against forming tears. "…And it was hell without the love of my life there, the man who took my virginity, by my side, loving me, comforting me."

"Chloe, I—"

"Save it, Der—Mr. Souza. Have a nice night." I jogged back to my car and slapped the hood viciously; the metal stung my hand. Sighing through my nostrils, I slammed into the car and cried over the steering wheel as I saw Derek watching me from the tree line, looking just the same as the first day I saw him, and the last night we spent in each other's companies.

_You're a big girl, _I reminded myself as I started the car and slowly drove home.


	5. Chapter 5

Partnership

5

Derek leaving me that night five years ago never really got to me, well, except tonight. I couldn't get it out of my head, every detail blown up in HD, every sensation, every little smile he gave me as he held my hand and gave me all his patience. The tears came and dripped down my cheeks slowly, burning my face.

"Make it stop," I begged to Milos, who watched me sadly and tried to hug me. Every memory of Derek flickered behind my lids as I cried and cried, unable to keep them from flowing.

oOo

"You look like hell," Kari said, sipping her tequila gently as I drained one of my shots. The whiskey burned a fire down my throat as I threw back another one. My vision blurred when I blinked.

"Chloe!" barked out a voice. I spun around and saw him, of _all _people, stalking towards me, some bitch clinging to his arm like a monkey. Anger spiked through me. "What?" I asked coolly, hearing the chill in my voice.

"Get up. I'm taking you—" Derek growled but he no longer scared me, nor did he control me.

"No. I'm a grown woman and I will do whatever the hell I please!" I snapped and the look that crossed his handsome face was surprise. Little Chloe Saunders, helpless, defenseless necromancer, had grown a backbone. "Plea—" he began and if he _had _said "please" I would've caved.

However…"Who's this little girl? Do you know her, Derry?" The woman on his arm spoke with a thick accent as she batted her eyes at him. She didn't seem so stupid though, by the sly smile she shot at him.

_Derry. That's what I called him when I was upset. _

"Josephine, go over there. Get us a table." She scampered off and her hair bouncing in the light looked like mine. Except she was curvy, busty and had a nice butt. I, on the other hand, was curve_less_, flat chested, and no booty to speak of. He turned to me and all my anger came rushing back, pushed to the front.

"Oh, Josephine," I said mockingly, "You're so exotic and beautiful. And mature-bodied. _Nothing _like my teenage girlfriend who I left."

"Chloe," he growled warningly, "go _home_." I bristled and shot to my feet, clenching my fists tightly.

"You don't control me, Mr. Souza. Not anymore. You lost me when you left after we made love. You lost it the minute you stepped out of my life and never came back. I was just some cheap thrill, wasn't I? I bet I wasn't even your first." I wasn't sure if it was the shots talking or my real feelings. I leaned against the counter and took a deep breath, the smoky air making me light headed.

Derek stepped towards me but I pulled a hand between us and glowered. "No. _You _don't get to the hero, the good guy. Don't think you can wiggle your way back and leave me all over again like you did back then. Did you know—" I stopped and started again, not wanting to tell him the things I'd done while he was gone.

"—I'm going to sit here and get drunk and maybe go home with someone who isn't you because it became so blaringly obvious to little old Chloe Saunders that you didn't want her." I turned away and felt him behind me, his hands gripping the granite counter top, white-knuckled.

"Miss Saunders," he said in a deadly tone, "I suggest—"

"_I suggest _you leave me the hell alone, Mr. Souza," I spat and his grip draw fissures in the countertop. I waved for another shot and caught it as the bartender eyeballed Derek. "Do you want some help?" he asked me, eyes never leaving my soon-to-be boss. He waved over security but I shook my head.

"Mr. Souza," I said loudly to be heard above the music, raising my shot glass. Fog swirled around us and the bass drummed through my chest as lights bounced around us.

"Here's to _screw _you."

I slammed down the shot without hesitation as he stalked away, glowering. To his retreating back, I screamed out, "It's _Miss Saunders!_"

oOo

Now I knew why Beth never drank shots. My head was tap dancing on my neck and every inch of me felt grimy and gritty as I kicked off my tangled sheets and sat up, my head pounding as the streaming light stabbed knives into my eyes.

"Remind me to _never _do shots again," I moaned into my pillow. The house was deathly quiet, though and I looked around for Milos. Where was he? I could sense ghosts within a house, or at least in certain floors if they were on the same floor as me, but I couldn't feel him. A chill swept through me as I crawled out of the bed, ignoring my migraine.

"Milos?" I croaked out as I held onto the doorframe. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw hot, rich flames, climbing higher and higher, smelled smoke filling the hallway. Years ago, a girl had died in a fire in this very house and the ghost residue was still here, flashing behind my eyelids from time to time.

I coughed into my hand and the motion sent my temples throbbing. I managed to hobble down the stairs with the speed of an old woman and glanced in the dining and living room. No Milos, but he was here, in this floor. My skin prickled as my feet touched from the cozy carpet to the hardwood floor of the connecting hallway that stretched out from the living room down to the kitchen/foyer.

"Milos?" I called again, faltering in step when I felt something burning touch my leg. I swung around but no one was there; no ghost, no human, no supernatural. The ghost residue rose up behind my eyes and I saw a dim, smoky hallway, heat closing in. The girl was no younger than myself, wearing her curly dark hair in pigtails as she staggered.

I heard the _thump _as she collapsed, her body spasming, fire licking at the backs of her legs, bare with the little Hello Kitty shorts she was wearing. Someone was screaming but I could only hear the murmur over the roaring of the fire.

I squeezed my eyes shut as a sob escaped me.

"Chloe?"

I spun and found Derek standing in the swinging door's doorway, holding a spatula, wearing _my _apron, the sound of crackling meat and the smell of it filtering out behind him.

Milos peeked around him and stepped closer, floating in mid-air. For the longest time, I couldn't think of anything to say and then, suddenly, it came to me.

"What do you want?"


	6. Chapter 6

Partnership

6

Is it appropriate for your _boss _to be here, in your _house_, making pancakes (my stomach rumbled) as you nursed a major headache, I wondered as I sat down quietly in a chair. Sunlight streamed in, making me wince as pinpricks of pain stabbed behind my eyes.

"I was worried," he began, lightly beating the pancake mix with his fork as he glanced back at me, like he was afraid I'd left just like he did. Some of the pounding in my head went away at the thought and anger burned away some of my general sick feeling.

"Yeah, right. As you can see, I'm perfectly capable of—" I started, focusing on the scar on the inside of his forearm, but he interrupted me sharply, stabbing the spatula at me.

"You _aren't_!" he snapped. Milos cowered behind the fridge like a child. "You got _drunk_ with a _serial killer _on the loose!" Mr. Souza's voice grew louder and the pounding in my head came back full force. "Why does it matter to _you_?" I spat, looking up from rubbing at my tender temples.

That caught him off guard and he stumbled, nearly dropping his bowl. "I would hate for one of my possible employees to be killed when I could do something to keep them safe," he said absently. I shook my head. "I don't _believe _you," I laughed. His jaw twitched as he turned away.

"It doesn't matter," he said after a moment, his voice back to cool and quiet. Where had my Derek gone, the one who smiled and cared? I blinked hard and clenched my fists. _He's gone. He left. He's _not _coming back. _

"I should call the cops, you know," I muttered to the placemat. "But you won't," Mr. Souza interjected sharply, lading a spoonful of pancake batter onto the griddle. I narrowed my eyes at him. "Get out of my house, Mr. Souza." Surprise and hurt flashed across his face before he smoothed out his expression.

"You're sick. You're just like a little girl, acting out when things don't—" he started, a sneer rising in his voice. "You shut your mouth for three seconds! You know _nothing _about me, Mr. Souza! Now get the _hell _out of my house before I kick your ass myself!" I snarled, standing up a little too fast and stumbling viciously, swaying.

"Chloe!" He grabbed my shoulders and shook me, snapping my head back and forth. "You're being unreasonable," he growled quietly and I pulled myself away quickly, slapping at his hands.

"Don't _touch _me." My voice rose at the end, shriller than the rest of the sentence. "_You're _being unreasonable. _You're _the one who broke into _my _house. Get _out_!" I shoved him, hard, and he stumbled back, his eyes widening as something tightened around his mouth. He turned away and I watched him, clenching my fingers into my arm. His broad shoulders were thigh and he was clenching and unclenching his fists.

"I won't bother you again, Miss Saunders." Something cold slid into his tone as he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, showing no emotions. I fought down a shiver and held my head high as I brushed passed him on the way to the door.

"I'm…" he started hesitantly; holding my gaze with his penetrating, firm one. I wanted to let my guard down, let him into me again, feel his arms around me; I wanted to cry and tell him everything, tell him I loved him and never forgot, never moved on. _He left you all alone, _whispered a voice. _You gave him _everything_ and he left you. _That made me clench my jaw and meet his eyes longer than I ever could at fifteen; surprise flashed across his face, like he was startled to see I could hold my own, that I was a big girl now.

"Go before I call the police," I told him as calmly as I could, gripping the edge of the door as hard as I could, knuckles turning white. Mr. Souza glanced down at me as he paused, one foot outside, the other inside, his green eyes warm with something that had my brain stuttering.

_I was right where I belonged. _

That was gone, gone, gone baby. It was a shadow in the light; a stain in the carpet. It wasn't _real. _"Oh, by the way, Miss Saunders," he was saying as I tuned back in, seeing him leaning too close for comfort. Five years ago, I would've stuttered and backed down. Not now. I stepped closer, my breasts brushing his stomach and his cheek brushed my knuckles. "You've got the job," he said.

I felt so fuzzy and numb that I just nodded and managed a tiny smile, one big enough to keep him from insisting to stay. "Okay. Thanks. Have a nice day."

Every word was a strain on my throat, which seemed to want to swell up around the painful, emotion-induced lump.

Mr. Souza's glittering eyes regarded me carefully. "Black coffee helps," he said suddenly, glancing up at the shimmering air.

Other Supernaturals saw shimmery air when a ghost was present; mainly non-necromancers.

A look crossed his eyes and his head dipped a fraction of an inch before he turned away and walked, taking long, crisp steps, measured perfectly. He looked strong, capable and powerful; he held the world by his fingertips and everyone bowed to his power. In the sun, with dust floating around his, he looked like he had wings.

I slammed the door harder than I meant to and slid to the floor, trembling. My fingers blurred; all I could make out were shaking blobs and splotches of color, brown and tan and Milos's lean figure. He was talking but I couldn't hear him; all I could was everything Mr. Souza had ever said.

_I love you. _

_We'll be together forever, okay?_

_Yeah, you did a lot. _

_You _can't _like me. _

_I'll never leave you. _

I whimpered and let the tears burn down my cheeks, watching my hands. Milos was crying now, too; his brown, kind face was splotchy and puffy, like he was a chubby kid. "Don't cry on my account," I told him weakly, my lips tasting of tears.

"I'm…not…crying," he sniffled out, "…sweating…through my…eyes." I managed an eye roll and sat there for the rest of the day, ignoring calls from Aunt Lauren and Kari and Beth and everyone. I stayed until my butt went numb and chills crept in.

_I'm sorry, Chloe, but this is for the best. _

Somehow, I was in my bedroom again, tearing open my underwear drawer, staring down at the pristine, notebook paper letter with Mr. Souza's familiar handwriting. It hadn't faded a bit.

_I love you. I loved you from the minute you stepped into Lyle House to the minute we kissed that first time. I love your cute little snorts and millions of freckles, your untamed hair and beautiful blue eyes. Every day, I wanted to wake up to see your face next to mine. Every day, I know this'll be even harder to write. Damn, my hand won't stop—_

He had scratched it out.

—_Last night was the most memorable night of my life; I was alive in ways I'd never been. It was like I'd been half awake my entire life and you woke me up entirely, bringing me alive. It was amazing and beautiful; but I can't stay. I can't tell you where I'm going. Or why I'm going. Or when I'll be back. _

He'd torn the paper and switched to my fuzzy pink pen.

_I love you, forever, Chloe. Always. —Derek_. I pressed the tip of my tongue against the back of my teeth and sank to the floor. Milos was screaming my name. I was slipping away. Sleep looked extremely lovely.

I love you, forever, Chloe. Always. Derek.

_You damn liar_.


	7. Chapter 7

Partnership

7

I wake up disorientated and with a minor headache. I'm on the floor, my face tacky from long since dried tears, and Mr. Souza's letter clutched to my chest. _Not again, _I think immediately as I crawl to my feet, swaying as sunlight streams in. The sunlight is too bright, too shiny, and it's burning my eyes like razors; I can't see and I'm stumbling like a blind man.

"You should take a shower," Milos suggests, hovering near the window. He looks translucent. "Yeah," I say because it's the only thing I can say and if I let myself think for too long than I'll start crying again, screaming and begging for Mr. Souza to come back, to hold me and make the hurt go away, to fix me, to be my good old, grouchy but lovely Derek again. I want to go back to being the goody two shoes, too scared to do anything, stuttering Chloe Saunders.

I tuck the letter under a pair of lace panties and head for the bathroom. Milos remains in the bedroom; I close the door and strip down.

I'm boney and thin, skinny, like a little boy; my breasts are tiny with rosebuds and my ribcage batters against my skin, begging to be let out and my curves are nonexistent and my hips are squarish. My arms and legs are knobby; my hands are thin with bony fingers.

I'm scrawnier than I remember.

oOo

Steam is filling my lungs as I lay back in the bathtub, water sloshing against the underside of my chin. I think of Mr. Souza and Liam and Milos and the girl who died. I think and think and think until my brain runs out of things to think about and instead replays memories that close around me and seem to tangible, as though they'd happened yesterday.

Derek's lips on mine, for the first time.

His smile as I gave myself to him.

The heartbreak as I read his damn note.

Tori screaming when she found my razors.

Kit crying when I went to the hospital.

Dad crying as he found me.

I close my eyes and I cry too. It's like everything is connected and nothing is connected; it's coming together and falling apart; I'm breathing and I'm holding my breath. Everything is wild and spinning and I can't hold onto this fucking terrible merry go round anymore even though I've been trying to jump for years.

I'm trying to breathe and drown at the same time; water's splashing everywhere and my screams are shattering mirrors and I let my head fall under the surface. Everything is peaceful and quiet and calm and I can relax. I stare up at the ceiling until my eyes are burning and my lungs are screaming and my hands are shaking; a face peers down at me but its not Milos's tan face. It's a girl's face, with pigtails and braces. She looks young, around thirteen or fourteen, with big, brown eyes and curly dark hair pulled into pigtails.

She's crying as she reaches for me and I sit up, water streaming into my eyes. She stops crying; I stop breathing. Milos calls my name and she spins around, trembling and rocking slightly, hugging herself. "I sho-shouldn't—I can't—I—" she stammers, looking at me with terrified eyes, a little girl scared and alone and lost; her heels are burnt red and the ends of her hair is singed and she looks sun burnt, her eyes wet and watery as tears fall down her cheek.

"Please, don't go. Milos can help you." I'm standing up, reaching for her, water pouring off my nudity; she looks at me in awe and embarrassment. Milos phases through the door. The girl stares at him; he stares at her too and then she starts to cry, babbling louder and louder; I'm shattering into shards and my brain is leaking through my fingers as my legs give out and my knees crack into the bathtub.

I'm dizzy and breathless and I really can't catch my breath. I'm trying to suck in air. I can smell smoke and fire and the room is boiling; I can't scream or cry or even move. I fall face first into the water.

oOo

The room is blazing with light but it's not from my lamp. Outside, it's dark. I can see flashing lights; people gather outside the house. The room is sweltering and I can't seem to get enough air; I kick back my blankets.

And start to panic. Fire. All around me. Flames crackling and hissing and popping; smoke swirling and filling my lungs. I look around. Panic even more. No way out. My window's jammed. I can't can't can't breathe; I'm drowning and the roaring is loud as a jet, making my bones and teeth rattle; someone's wailing outside.

I see Mom being loaded into an ambulance; a firefighter is pulling out the ladder. I look at the door. Look at the window. My head is bouncing back and forth. I can hear dogs whining. The dogs. Mom would hate for them to die this way. I take a deep breath and turn away from my only means of escape; I push my legs towards the door.

Everything i and grey grey grey like an angry cloud; everything is peeling and in flames, hot and angrangry flames that will hurt you, and I can hear the yapping getting louder. I head down the hallway, legs working, and muscles weak. I trip. Smack myself in the nose. Blood gushing down my lips. I barely register. "Fyfe! Tonya!" I call hoarsely. Smoke kamikazes down my throat and I choke, gasping and sputtering.

I break apart as the fire eats away at me; I stumble down the hallway, shaking and trembling. I have to get them. Mom will be so sad if I don't. I slap my hand into the garage opener. Someone screams my name. Someone screams about the dogs. I can't move my legs. I'm going to die.

oOo

When I wake up, I'm confronted by a pair of angry, deep green eyes.

Mr. Souza's in my house again. At least he's not—shit, he's wearing the damn apron. Again.


End file.
